A Year of Ravens is told in 7 parts by myself and 6 authors of the H: Team! Just as with our award-winning collaboration last year, A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii, was told in progressing parts, so is Ravens. I really think you'll enjoy it!
Below, I've shared an excerpt from my part, The Daughters, and I do hope you'll enjoy it!
Britannia: land of mist and magic clinging to the western
edge of the Roman Empire. A red-haired queen named Boudica led her people in a
desperate rebellion against the might of Rome, an epic struggle destined to
consume heroes and cowards, young and old, Roman and Briton... and these are
their stories.
A calculating queen foresees the fires of rebellion in a
king's death.
A neglected slave girl seizes her own courage as Boudica
calls for war.
An idealistic tribune finds manhood in a brutal baptism
of blood and slaughter.
A death-haunted Druid challenges the gods themselves to
ensure victory for his people.
A conflicted young warrior finds himself torn between
loyalties to tribe and to Rome.
An old champion struggles for everlasting glory in the
final battle against the legions.
A pair of fiery princesses fight to salvage the pieces of
their mother’s dream as the ravens circle.
A novel in seven parts, overlapping stories of warriors and
peacemakers, queens and slaves, Romans and Britons who cross paths during
Boudica’s epic rebellion. But who will survive to see the dawn of a new
Britannia, and who will fall to feed the ravens?
Excerpt:
KEENA
My name means brave.
However, I was anything but, and I knew it.
“You have everything to fear of this world,
Daughters,” my mother said as we hunched by the river, miles from the battlefield,
our lathered horses greedily drinking up the offered water. The waning light of
the setting sun surrounded us, and the cold was bitter. Tall grasses stirred in
the breeze, batting wearily at my shoulders while only the occasional glimmer
of light broke the sullen darkness of the waters, rippling when Mother dipped
her hands into the depths. She cupped her hands, pulling the icy liquid to wash
the blood from her face.
I never thought victory was possible. All
through the thirteen years since my birth, our people had struggled against
Roman edicts. No swords. No way to protect ourselves but to rely on the Romans.
Thank the gods our hunters were good with arrows and slingshots. And thank the
gods as well for mother’s insight, that she continued with our tribe’s secret
training and hoarding of weapons—had she not, we might have perished a year
ago. No, I never thought victory possible. But I know our defeat for a
certainty now.
Our people had been slaughtered. And Mother
was injured, cut deep in a place I’d seen kill warriors slowly. A wound I’d
tended on many in the last year, in the healing tents where I'd honed my
skills.
“What have I to fear?” My sister, Sorcha,
said, her voice haughty as it often was when she was scared. She tugged her
lean-muscled shoulders back, oblivious to the muck that still marred her skin
from battle, now covered in a crust of dirt and sweat from our frenzied ride
away from the field. Lost now. Everything and everyone lost. The Iceni, all
shadows of the past . . . except for us. “We will hide in the
mists. Raise a new army. We will come back at the Romans harder than before. We
will make them live in fear.”
Mother looked at Sorcha as if wanting to
believe her, but when she turned to me, her expression was guarded. “Yes. Perhaps
you’re right. We need to keep running.”
We had been running since the battle's end
yesterday, only stopping briefly to rest as night fell and continuing on as a
blood-red dawn rose. Now another night was falling, and Sorcha had come up with
a plan, a haphazard one. We would seek refuge and assistance in the north with
Venutius, the estranged husband of Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes. Since he
didn’t support the Romans, he was the most likely ally we’d be able to find at
a safe distance from the battlefield. At the very least, he could keep us
hidden from Rome until mother was healed.
Mother attempted to mount her borrowed horse,
refusing Sorcha’s help at first, though it was painfully obvious she needed the
assistance.
“Mother,” I said softly, touching her
shoulder.
A shuddering sigh of defeat escaped her. Not
another word was exchanged, but she allowed both Sorcha and myself to lift her
mighty body up onto the saddle. Sorcha mounted the prized mare of one of our
warriors—that warrior was likely dead now. Andecarus was his name, and I heard
Sorcha whisper it to the horse.
With a deep sigh, I climbed onto the saddle
behind my mother. We had but two horses, and with the both of us sharing this
one while Sorcha rode the other, it made the journey slower.
My muscles were sore. My head was heavy. My
sister, strong and determined, sat tall before us. As the horse walked, every
sway of my body jarred the aches in my bones. It was worse for my mother, who
leaned over the withers of our mount. I gripped the reins around her middle
when the leather slipped from her fingers. I had insisted on riding behind
Mother; told her that as a brave fighter, I would take up the rear guard—but it
wasn’t bravery. I was too afraid to be in the front with Sorcha. Too afraid that
Sorcha would sense my fear that we had reached the end and call me a coward for
thinking it.
Sorcha . . . My older sister
was the most capable girl I’d ever met. Even before we’d both grown breasts,
she was always the leader. Like Mother.
I'd hoped that I would become a warrior, too,
since my father was one, and I looked like him. But I could barely cut a hunk
of venison, let alone cut an enemy with a sword. My only skill seemed to be for
the healing arts—at best, I'd make a budding priestess. Sorcha, now—she was a
master with a blade.
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